


The Strands We Weave

by daymarket



Series: Evie [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Brother-Sister Relationships, Character Study, Family, Gen, Sibling Love, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5317112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daymarket/pseuds/daymarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the surface, it's just hair. It's far more than that, though, with memory and identity bound into the long, brunette strands.</p><p>Character study of Evie Frye, taking place before and after AC:Syndicate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Childhood

**Author's Note:**

> I am fascinated by Evie's hair. It's such an elaborate braid, and I'm never going to be able to do it in a million years if I try. This sort of spiraled from that.

When Evie was five years old, one of her favorite things was the entire world were Saturday evenings in Grandmama's room. With the fireplace crackling away merrily and the scent of honey and spice surrounding them like a warm blanket, Grandmama would use the brush to straighten out Evie's hair, making sure to get out all the knots without any pulling or tugging. Grandmama's hands were soft and warm, just like her, and she would be oh-so-gentle as she braided Evie's waist-length hair. And then there would be the ribbons. As a child, Evie loved those ribbons: pink and purple, white and red, primrose and lavender. “Pretty ribbons for a pretty girl,” Grandmama would always say.

It was an unspoken rule that this time was just for the two of them. No Grandpapa, and definitely no Jacob allowed. Jacob claimed that he didn't care, but Evie knew better because there were _ribbons_ and that was the best thing in the whole world. Besides, she spent plenty of time with him anyway. Every other time apart from those evenings was JacobandEvie time: Sunday morning after church, she would run with Jacob again, the ribbons left behind on the drawing room table. Her hair would be a flyaway mess, braid undone and flapping in the wind. But as surely as the sun rose, there would always be those perfect Saturday evenings: Grandmama, warmth, and the secure knowledge that Evie was loved.

Four months after their sixth birthday, Father comes for them. He's not a big man, but to a six-year-old, he might as well be a giant. Ethan Frye doesn't need physical stature to be imposing and terrifying, and even at that young age, she knows that Father is _the_ Assassin. She knows that he's killed more than a score of targets; he's mentored more students than she has fingers to count them on; he's the foremost scholar of the Brotherhood. She doesn't really _understand_ much of what that means until she becomes older, but even at six she knows that this man is who she wants to become, no matter what it takes.

Assassins don't need ribbons. She leaves them behind at Grandmama's, tucked away as a quiet memory of bloodless times.


	2. Adolescence

She's beating him, and he knows it. She's spent the past _week_ drilling while Jacob's been running with the boys from the tavern, and the results show the difference. His face is contorted with frustration as she dodges his wild slash, and she's never felt more alive. “Too much dice around the tavern table, not enough training,” she taunts, and he growls like a dog. “Come on! You're too slow!”

With a yell, he charges her. He's angry, though, and Evie knows with perfect clarity that anger never helps, only blinds. Father's said that time and time again, but Jacob never listens. She sidesteps and grabs his arm as he lunges past, using his momentum to swing him into the ground. He kicks out, not bothering to pull the force behind it, but he's at a bad angle and so it just glances off anyway. They're scrabbling in the dirt, but she can see the perfect angle—a kick to the back of his knee, a hard crack to the bones of the wrist to loosen his grip. She takes a punch to the collarbone, but that's okay because he's flat on his back. Easy kill! She unsheaths her blade.

With a sudden surge of strength, he breaks his left hand free. She blocks her face automatically, but he's not going for that. A burning pain lances across the whole back of her head, and she screams in pain and shock. He's snagged the tip of her braid, hair caught in flailing fingers, and he's yanking as hard as he possibly can. “And you're too vain,” he spits, hand coiling around the braid in a death grip. Using her hair as leverage, he pulls her off of him and now it's her who's flat on the ground, trapped underneath his weight. She scrabbles uselessly at him, but her head hurts so much and she can't get a good grip on him and now the wooden blade is at her throat.

“Halt,” Father calls, and the fight's over.

Jacob lets go of her hair. He's laughing breathlessly, a hugely smug grin spreading across his face. “See here, Evie, some of us are just born gifted,” he says, twirling the blade in his fingers. “And some of us just have to struggle along.”

“You cheated,” she hisses. Her head still feels like it's on fire, and she wonders for a horrified second if he's pulled her scalp out. Is she bleeding? “You're not supposed to go for hair!”

“Can I help it if you're stupid enough to keep it flapping in my face?” he retorts. “Guess I'm still a better Assassin than you, even though you spend half your life obsessing over rules—”

“As opposed to you, who doesn't care about _anything—”_

“If you want nice and pretty, go flirt at a party or something—”

“—you're the one who cried like a baby when I kicked you in the—”

“—after all, you've certainly dressed the part—”

“Stop,” Father says. He's not loud, and he doesn't have to be. He's standing there with his arms crossed, stern and foreboding, and Evie feels heat crawl up the back of her neck that has nothing to do with her aching head. She looks away, shame curling in the pit of her stomach. Of course. She let Jacob bait her. She got angry, and that made her blind.

“Evie, an Assassin uses all the tools at their disposal. There's no such thing as 'cheating' in a fight,” Father says, and oh, now she's getting lectured. Father doesn't sound judgmental, but the cool, calm tone of his voice strikes like a blow anyway. “Learn your weaknesses. Guard them carefully.” There's a huge smirk on Jacob's face, and she looks away. She can hear Father starting in on Jacob next, critiquing his technique, but it doesn't matter.

“Please excuse me,” she says to the ground when Father is done. It's a long moment before she sees Father nod in assent out of the corner of her eye, and Evie hands over her blade without looking up. She walks slowly and calmly out of the training ground, and she's so proud of how she doesn't start to run until she's out of sight.

* * *

Her head still aches, but the burning pit in her stomach is far worse. She trained so hard, trying to become the best Assassin, and here Jacob sweeps in and cheats his way to victory. Except he didn't cheat, and the problem isn't really Jacob. The problem is her and her _weakness_.

Unbraided, her hair falls to the small of her back. It lies loose on her shoulders now, long and dark and sibilant in her fingers. She runs a hand through it, pulling gingerly at the long strands. Girls, women, they all have long hair. That's the way it's supposed to be in society, isn't it? All of the other girls in Crawley have long hair.

...but then again, they're not Assassins, are they? She's only met two other female Assassins, one who sits on the Council. Lady Belmore has long hair, but she's not an active field agent anymore. The other woman, Elizabeth Marley, has hers cut short. And of course, all the men have theirs short as well. It doesn't get in the way, and it's not a weakness.

Evie runs a hand through her hair, feeling the strands flow through her fingers. She brushes it out every other night, but that's time that could have been spent training or studying. She has to braid it when she's done, and it takes ages to dry when it's wet. It's heavy on her head, and it's vulnerable to attack. Being a girl and an Assassin is hard enough with the monthly bleeding, but she can't change that. But what she can change is this vanity of hers, can't she? Jacob was right. Long hair is for ladies, and she doesn't want to be a lady. She wants to fight. She wants to bring justice to the world, to fight Templars and bring freedom and make a difference and _she can't do that as a girl_. So—so—

—so that means—

The scissors are a cool weight in her hand. Evie takes a deep breath as she sections her hair off, her fingers trembling as she measures. Shoulder length? No, that's even worse, not long enough to braid and long enough to pull. So by the ears, then. Like Jacob. Like Elizabeth. A close-cut boy's style, because that's practical and Assassins go for the practical route, using all the tools at their disposal. She positions the blades over the hair and before she can lose her bravery, cuts down. It goes through surprisingly easily.

One cut. Two. And another, another, until her neck is bare. And then the sides, the fringes, making sure that there's nothing left to attack. As cool air wraps around her neck, Evie opens her eyes. The last bit of it floats down to pool around her feet, she looks down at it in a moment of frozen horror. The scissors are suddenly unsteady in her hand, and the world is blurry.

She reaches up to touch her neck. The edges of her hair are ragged, and she must look so _ugly_. She's not vain, she's never been, but this isn't how it's supposed to be. She's always been Evie Frye, and she knows that her path is that of an Assassin. She was born and bred for this role; she's being trained, and she's ready to embrace that, with everything it means. Except for this, except for this one small indulgence: her waist-length hair that smells of sunlight and warmth, hair that she combs through carefully by herself now that Grandmama isn't here. And now it's gone, and she's—naked.

Moving as through a dream, she drops the scissors and reaches down, running her hands through the broken strands. There's so much of it, and on the cold ground it looks filthy and disgusting. And that's right. It _was_ filhy and disgusting. Long loose hair is the mark of a girl; beautifully coiled long hair is that of a lady. She's neither, because she's an Assassin. To the likes of them, long hair is annoying and an inconvenience, and she should be glad that it's gone.

Right?

Something wet falls onto her searching fingers, and she jumps in shock. It takes her a very long moment to realize that it's not raining, and she hates herself for being so weak. She's being trained to kill, for God's sake, and some stupid strands of hair are making her cry? Jacob doesn't cry over stupid things like these. Hell, he's had his hair cropped short his entire life and he's fine. Better than fine.

“Evie?”

Shock runs through her. She jumps to her feet and scrubs at her eyes furiously with her free hand. It's bad enough that she cut her hair, but she'll be damned if she lets Jacob see her weakness. Jacob's got the second sight, much as she does, so there's not much point in hiding the hair, but she can hide the tears. No crying. Assassins don't cry. “Go away,” she says, and she curses inwardly as her voice wobbles mid-sentence. “I'm busy, Jacob.”

“No you're not,” he says. Unspoken behind it: I can see you, idiot. “What are you doing?”

“Go away,” she hisses.

“Oh, right, like you're the lord of the manor,” he says, and he's opening the door without so much as a by-your-leave. She jumps up, but it's too late. She can see it in his face as he takes it all in: the pile on the floor, the ragged strands of hair, the blotchiness around her eyes. His mouth falls open. She wants so badly to punch him for coming in, but for some reason she can't seem to move.

“I said, go away,” she rasps finally. “But of course you wouldn't listen.”

“What did you...?”

She sniffles, swiping a hand across her nose angrily. Taking a deep breath, she clenches the scissors in her hand and draws herself up straight. “I needed a change,” she says as calmly as possible. “It wasn't working for me.”

“But what—why—” Jacob splutters.

“Because I wanted to,” she says coldly. “And now get out. I don't want an audience.”

He doesn't seem to hear her. His eyes are fixed on the pile of hair on the floor, and she's hyperaware of how long it is, and how the strands tickle her feet. “You cut your hair,” he says slowly, and oh, how she wants to throw the scissors at his face. “Because of me?”

Of course. Right. “Not everything on the bloody planet revolves around you, Jacob Frye,” she snaps. “Sometimes I do decide things on my own. Begging your pardon, your Majesty.”

“I didn't mean that,” he begins, and he looks so lost. No smugness, just confusion. She stares at him hard, and he spreads his hands. “Why?” he repeats finally.

She's so _angry_. She's furious, incandescent with rage, and she wants to rip him apart. Except that she doesn't, because she's so tired and she doesn't want to have to justify something that she doesn't even understand. She could yell, she supposes, but that would mean that he would yell back and then they'd have a fight and she'd humiliate herself by crying in front of him when really all she wants to be is alone. Closing her eyes, she takes a moment to try to compose herself. “I don't have to explain myself to you,” she says.

“Father's going to be so—”

“He'll be pleased,” she says, and she has to believe that. “It kept me from being as good as I can be. And now I don't have to worry about it anymore.” She takes a breath. “And I don't care about what you have to say, because this was the right choice and I—” She forces herself to stop talking. “Anyway. I don't. Need you, I mean. So you can leave now.”

He continues to stare. Evie turns away, the motion causing cool air to brush the side of her neck in a reminder of what she's lost. “Go away, please,” she says. “You can gawk to your heart's content at dinner.”

“We're on our own for dinner. Father's got a visitor, so it's just us this evening,” Jacob says, and he still sounds stunned. And what does he have to be stunned about? she thinks angrily. It's not anything that's happened to him. “I was coming to ask if you wanted to go down to the pub to get something to eat, but now that you've—”

“I've what?” she demands. “Don't you dare say it.”

Jacob's eyebrows go up. “I was going to say, _changed,_ ” he says, and isn't that bloody hilarious, Jacob Frye trying to be delicate. And it's hateful, because that's the whole point of this stupid exercise: she's Evie Frye, an Assassin, and she doesn't need to be handled like a piece of porcelain. But now she's about to cry, so maybe she does. Maybe she should just stop and become a housewife in skirts, never to run or jump or fight.

She draws a shuddering breath. “I didn't do it because of you,” she says as calmly as she can, and she feels very cold now for absolutely no reason. “I had to—I mean, I needed to. It wasn't. Um. It was too long. And messy. And it gets in the way.” In a smaller voice: “Does it look bad?”

She forces herself to keep her chin high and meet his gaze, anticipating and dreading his response all at once. “It's not,” he begins, and then he sighs. “Evie, do you want me to lie?”

The fact that he's offering at all is...well, it's a kindness coming from Jacob, but it's also a damn insult. She shakes her head, and he spreads his hands. “It looks awful. I'm sorry.” She hates the sympathy in his voice.“Did you use a mirror?”

“It was easier if I didn't,” she says quietly.

“It's hair,” he says, and he still sounds so hatefully gentle. “Not a person. It doesn't bleed.”

It didn't need to, she thinks, but she just shrugs, her fingers drumming a nervous beat on the handle of the scissors. “I know,” she says.

“You don't look like you know,” Jacob says. He steps into the room, reaching out a hand. She steps back, and he lowers it slightly as if approaching a skittish animal. And damn her, she's being skittish now. “What?”

“What are you doing?”

“You can't go out looking like that,” Jacob says. “Father's going to think that the cats got you or something, and then he'll throw them back out on the streets to starve.” She stares at him. “Evie. I'm trying to help."

“No,” she says. “Look, I'm fine. I don't need you here."

His tone turns sharp. “Yeah, you do,” he says. “Someone has to keep you out of trouble. If I leave now, you'll just end up in a corner rolling about and feeling sorry for yourself.” He gestures. “Come on, then.”

“You can't make my hair grow back again,” she says, scissors still held away. “What do you plan on doing, exactly?”

“I can at least make it look less horrible,” he says. “If you don't want to use a mirror, it's going to look terrible. It _does_ look terrible.” He pauses, then gives her a faintly mocking grin. “Like you attacked it with a kitchen knife. Like a Templar tried to eat it. Like it was burned in the stove. Like it was—”

“I get the idea,” she growls between clenched teeth.

“I'm just telling it like it is,” Jacob says with a shrug. “But lucky you, I don't need a mirror, so hand it over.”

If he treated her with pity, she might have stabbed him in the eye. The caustic teasing, though; that's what she needs. She looks at him, and the slight upward twist to his mouth is all the acknowledgement they'll ever need. With a show of reluctance, she holds out the scissors. “Fine.”

He plucks them from her hand. “Sit down,” he directs, and she moves to a chair on the other side of the room, far away from the sad pile on the floor. “Now hold still. I'm going to try to even out the edge.”

There's the faint _snikt_ as the scissors get to work. She's not sure what she expected, but he's surprisingly delicate about it. The scissors move around the edge, cutting off tiny fragments at a time. “Do you even know how to cut hair?” she asks, more to distract herself than anything else.

“Better than you,” Jacob says absently. He flicks the side of her ear. “Stop squirming unless you want me to cut this off by accident. Unless you want me to? You'd look loads better with only one ear.”

“Don't you dare, you bastard,” she says.

“Ooh. Language,” he says.

“I'll do worse,” she growls, but she stills. Father's taught them how to hide, how to stay silent and still for hours on end, and she's learned those lessons far better than most. Silence settles in as Jacob sets to his work. She can't see what Jacob's doing, but he's humming softly to himself as the scissors snip away. She really shouldn't trust him with a pair of scissors so close to her neck, given his track record with fragile objects, but she does.

His hands lift away from her hair. She can still feel him standing behind her, though, no doubt studying his handiwork, and then he bends close again. “Working on the sides now,” he says, moving over to her left. She can see him out of the corner of her eye, but his expression is out of view. “Keep holding still.”

She obeys. “So,” he says as he works, “You want to place a bet on how Father will react? I'd say that if you get more than a single comment out of him it'll be a bloody Christmas miracle. He kept lecturing me after you left, you know. Something about my terrible guard and technique and how I should really be more like Evie. Perfect Evie.” Despite the words, his hands are gentle. “He's going to think that short hair is all the rage now because of you. Maybe I should shave my head bald. See if that'll get a reaction.”

“As if you wouldn't cover it up with a hat anyway,” she murmurs. “No one will be able to tell the difference.”

“Mmm. You know, I've always wanted a top hat. A fancy one with gold brim, perhaps. Think I could nick one from the hat shop?”

She frowns, distracted. “I don't—yes. Well. Where would you put it? You'd have to squash it and sneak it out. And then you'd never be able to wear it, because if Mr. Danbury gets wind of it, he'll tell Father and Father give you a sound thrashing.”

“Ah, the thrashings. Father hasn't thrashed me in three whole days, I think I'm starting to miss them,” he says. “Whatever will I do.”

“Pine,” she tells him. “Become one with the vegetation. And then Father'll uproot you and toss you out into the manure where you belong.”

“Sweet sister, you are heartless,” Jacob says, sounding cheerful. She laughs despite herself, and she can see his answering grin from the corner of his eye. “So fine, out into the manure I go. And then I'll slum with the pigs. Doesn't sound like a bad life, does it? Just lying about all day...”

“As if you don't do that already,” she says, shaking her head. He touches the side of her head lightly, and she stills. “I'm moving too much, aren't I? Sorry.”

“Just about done,” he says, and he's brushing the fringes of hair off her shoulders. There's a mirror on the bedside table, and he reaches out and hands it to her. “Here. Have a look.”

Evie hesitates for a long moment before taking it from his hand. Looking into it, she finds that a stranger looks back. A stranger with a boy's haircut, everything made more prominent by the lack of her braid. She reaches up to touch the edge, and she lets loose something that's not a sob because it can't be. “It's different,” she manages at last.

Jacob's quiet for a long moment. “Yeah, it is,” he says finally.

“I look like a boy.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“And I'm going to be a better Assassin for this.”

A snort. “You were a good Assassin before,” Jacob says. She looks up at him, startled by the sudden heat in his voice. “Don't be daft. Come on. Just because I beat you once this afternoon doesn't mean that you haven't won loads of times.”

There's something akin to anger in his eyes, something that she can draw strength from. “I didn't want to be weak,” she confesses quietly. She looks down at her hands curled in her lap. “It wasn't about the fight itself, Jacob. It was about...it was about me. And who I want to be. And who I can't be.”

Jacob sits on the desk across from her. “You've never worried about this before.”

She shrugs, a little helplessly. “There aren't many female Assassins, Jacob. You know that, I know that.”

“Mother was an Assassin, wasn't she? And there's Old Fart Belmore on the Council. Although I think the last time she stabbed anyone was her maid for bringing her tea that's too hot.”

“Jacob,” she says, vaguely scandalized.

“So, all right, not a good example,” he says, waving his hands. “Look. What are you worried about, Evie? That you're not a lady? Or that you're not an Assassin?”

His expression is earnest. “It's,” she begins, and then stops. “It's both. I want to be both. I am a girl. I'm proud of that. But I want to be an Assassin, too, more than anything. And I don't want any part of me to be held back.”

“Then be both,” he says, as if it's the easiest thing in the world. She raises an eyebrow at him, and the side of his mouth quirks wryly. “When your hair grows out again, it'll be beautiful and you can keep it that way. And if anyone tries to pull on your hair, kick them in the jewels. That's what I'd do. That's what you should've done, and then I would've tried to bite you and then we'd be bloody in the dirt while Father tells us how careless we are. You know. Typical afternoon.”

She laughs, surprising herself, and he grins. “See? Easy,” he says. “Nothing to worry about.”

It's not _that_ easy, not really. She wishes for Jacob's easy confidence, for his dismissal of society's rules. It isn't just the hair; it's a question of identity and destiny and her role in the world. It's a question of who she is, who she'll become, what she can do...

But maybe if she tells herself that it is that simple, with time, it will be.

She nods slowly. He leans forward, and she closes her eyes as he brushes a kiss along her forehead. “There,” he says, and she sighs. “Now. Do you want something to eat? I'm bloody starving.”

“I should really clean up the mess first,” she murmurs.

“We'll do that later,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “Perhaps Father will see it and have a conniption. That would be something for the presses, wouldn't it? An actual expression on Ethan Frye's face.”

“You're always driving Father mad,” she says. She accepts his help as he pulls her to her feet. “He'd probably buy you the damn hat if he didn't think that you'd lose it in the next madcap adventure.”

“I'm doomed to be the son of a cynic,” Jacob says, sounding not one whit bothered.

She smiles softly. “A hard life, I'm sure.”

“Indeed. To the tavern?”

Evie hesitates. She catches her reflection out of the corner of her eye, looking so utterly foreign and strange _._ “Perhaps I shouldn't. I don't...people will talk.”

“And they can bugger the hell off,” Jacob says. “Look. If anyone asks you about the hair, we can lie about it. Say that it was burned in a tragic accident and that you'll never be the same, life is hard, etcetera.” He brightens. “If you could cry theatrically, perhaps we could even score some free chips.”

Standing up, he heads for the door. She reaches out and he pauses, turning back. Silently, she reaches out and squeezes his hand in thanks, and he dips his head in acceptance. They don't need to say it, but the words hang in the air nonetheless.

He leans back, smile broad. “Come on. I'll race you to the tavern.”

“You're on,” she says, and then they're off.


	3. First Kill

Officially, they're just going as backup for George while he takes down the primary, but that doesn't stop the curl of excitement and nerves in the pit of her stomach. It's their first mission out in the field, and it's a chance for them to prove themselves. The night before and again in the morning, Evie makes sure that everything is perfect. The gauntlet is clean and the blade perfectly oiled, and she knows the exact amount of tension to set it free from its sheath. She rebraids her hair, making sure that it's curled into a tight bun at the base of her head. Drawing the hood over herself, she stares at the mirror, lightly touching the iconic mark of the Assassins embroidered into the cloth. She's trained for this. She's _ready_.

They're to catch a train, from there on it's about half an hour's ride to their target. The train roars by their stop in Crawley, and she shares a grin with Jacob as they make the jump without any trouble. “One down, hopefully many more to go,” Jacob says cheerfully as he picks himself up. The wind rushes by them as the train devours the horizon, and he pushes down his hood. His cheeks are flushed. “You nervous?” he asks her.

She gives him a pointed look, and he laughs. “Never,” she says. Well, she is a little bit, but she's excited. She's very excited, she's thrilled, and she's more terrified than she's ever been but determined to prove the fear wrong. All their lives have been leading up to this moment and of many moments like this after. “You don't have to worry, you know,” she says, and he raises an eyebrow. “I'll protect you.”

“As if!” he says, and she grins. “More like I'll have to save your dainty arse. Will you faint? Swoon? I'll even catch you if you do, because I'm just that nice.”

“I can take care of myself, thanks all the same,” she tells him.

“Ha! Want to lay a bet? Whoever gets fewer kills has to clean out the stables for a month.”

In the giddiness of the moment, she almost says yes. Before she can, though, George interrupts. “Enough of that, you two,” he says sharply. His arms are crossed and his brow furrowed. “You're to act as backup. No reckless killing. You're to guard the entrance and nothing more, so don't go looking for trouble.” He stares at him each in turn. “This isn't a game. These are lives that we're taking, and you're to respect that.”

Right. Of course. The reminder is like a bucket of water to the face, and she nods soberly. They're Assassins, not murderers, and she shouldn't forget that. “Sorry,” she tells him, and he grunts. “We'll stay on point. Promise.”

George throws Jacob a doubtful look, but he nods curtly. As he turns away, Jacob mouths _boring_ to her, and she smacks him on the shoulder. “Stick to the mission,” she tells him in a lowered voice, and he rolls his eyes. “Jacob. I mean it.”

“Fine, fine,” he says. “I won't go looking for trouble.” He pauses, then adds, “but if trouble comes looking for me, I won't say no.”

“ _Jacob_.”

“What?” She frowns at him, and he gives an exasperated sigh. “Fine. I'll be good. Quiet like a church mouse. You'll never know I'm there.”

“That'll be the day,” she tells him dryly.

“You don't believe me? I'm wounded. Squeak. See? That's my little mouse heart dying of sadness.”

“You're a complete idiot,” she tells him, and he laughs. The sound eases the pit of nerves in her stomach, and she smiles at him before turning her face up the sky. It's a beautiful day, a good day to show the Council what they can do. She glances sidelong at Jacob: he's flicking his hidden blade in and out, testing the spring. He looks relaxed to a stranger's eye, but she knows that tension's coiled in every fiber of his body, just waiting to spring.

He'll listen. She's certain that they've got this handled. With her brother at her back, she can do anything.

* * *

When the moment comes, there's no calculation, no planning of any sort. It's just her and the man before her, and that moment of blinding clarity when she knows the perfect angle to slice the blade across his throat. She dances in and strikes, hard and fast. There's a theatric, almost gaudy spray of blood, and the man's eyes are wide with disbelief. He gurgles, blood welling out of his lips, and she catches him as he sways.

It feels strangely intimate as she watches the light drain out of his eyes, his head falling to the side in a wordless sigh. He wasn't the target. He was the bodyguard of the target, George's target. She and Jacob were tasked to clear the area, and they've done that, and now this man is dead. With a bloodstained hand, she reaches up and closes his eyes, lowering him carefully to the ground. “Rest in peace,” she murmurs softly to him.

She lingers for a moment longer before straightening up. Looking over her shoulder at Jacob, she sees that there's a wild grin on his face, and he's practically bouncing in place. His smile fades as he looks at her, though, and there's a furrow of concern in his brow. “Are you all right? You're bloody all over.”

“No,” she says. “I mean—no, it's not mine. I'm fine. It's his blood.” She gestures at the dead man. “Neck kill, and I didn't have my hood on. It's just messy, that's all.”

“Oh.” He gives her a doubtful look. “Are you certain?”

“Very,” she tells him. More to distract herself than anything else, she tilts her head at his kill, the body's head jutting out at an awkward angle. “What about yours?”

The grin returns. “Oh, easy. A couple of punches and a broken neck. He's a terrible bodyguard.” Jacob rubs his hands together. “Do you think there are more of them around?”

There aren't supposed to be, but she does a quick scan with the second sight just to be sure. No red in the area, except, well, the massive spray of blood. “I suppose not,” she says. She looks back down at the dead man. His face is covered in blood, and so is she. Father said that neck kills were messy, and this is probably what he meant. “We should mark them.”

They both carry white handkerchiefs for moments like these. A sign of respect, a mark of the kill, or so Father says. Jacob pulls his out and waves it at her. “Want an extra one? You might as well use yours to clean your face off,” he says, sounding cheerful. “You look like you walked into a slaughterhouse and got mistaken for a pig.”

“Charming,” she murmurs, but she can feel the slick heat of blood spread across her neck. Strange, isn't it, how the human body contains so much blood? There seems to be a fountain of it on the stones, and there's no hope of hiding them in the short timeframe they have. She glances again at the man's face, which is slack in death. She's not religious; neither of them are, but she wonders if she should say a prayer for him. It would be appropriate, if only she knew what to say.

The handkerchief is quickly soaked red. Jacob's is dead of a broken neck, and so Jacob uses his handkerchief on her kill. “They'll never be able to tell the difference,” he says with a shrug. It seems disrespectful, almost, but she can't quite put her finger on how. She doesn't have much time to ponder it, though, as they have a rendezvous to make with George. All too soon that they're running the rooftops to get to the meeting point, where they're to wait for the other Assassin.

It's a windy day. As they wait on the rooftop, the wind gusts past her ears, sending strands of hair drifting from her tightly coiled braid. She braided it just this morning, she thinks inanely, and it seems so long ago. She reaches up to tuck the strands back, and she grimaces a little as she feels the touch of drying, half-hard, half-wet blood on them. No doubt it will smell foul.

“So do you think old Georgie kicked it?” Jacob says.

Startled, she looks at him. He's practically vibrating with pent-up energy as he crouches on the tiles, his hand drumming a beat against the tiles. “He's not late,” she says.

“No, but he's taking his own damn time,” Jacob says, and he doesn't sound displeased about it at all. “Perhaps he stopped for a cup of tea first, do you think? I don't hear any screaming.” The staccato beat of his hands grows faster, and he angles himself forward as if preparing to jump. “Do you think he needs help?”

She raises an eyebrow at him. He looks back, an unrepentant grin on his face. “Jacob. Remember.”

He pouts at her, but he settles back onto his heels. “You're no fun.”

“What a disappointment,” she tells him absently, rubbing the side of her head. It feels like the blood is settling through her hair and into her scalp. “I'm going to have to wash my hair tonight.”

“Make sure to use lots of soap and vinegar,” Jacob advises her sagely, and she rolls her eyes at him. She's got no real vitriol to spare, though, and she has the sudden irrational thought that perhaps the dead man is clinging onto her. The blood is tying her to him somehow, or that she's cursed with his dying breath, or—no, no, no. She's not going to think about things like that, because that's just silly.

She's relieved when George arrives, breaking her out of her macabre train of thought. The man looks rather out of breath, and he winces as Jacob gives him a bone-breaking slap on the back. “Well done, George!” Jacob declares. “Wait. You did kill the target, didn't you? Don't tell me you left a loose end lying around; that would just be messy.”

George draws himself up. “Of course I did,” he says loftily. He looks at Evie, and his expression turns concerned. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

She must look quite the picture. “It's not my blood. I'm fine,” she says. She would really rather get this blood off as soon as possible, but other than that, everything's fine. “Let's go, shall we?” George gives her a doubtful look. She shakes her head impatiently at him, though, and he doesn't question her further.

The train seems to take an age before it arrives. Once they board, it's yet another half-hour before they arrive in Crawley, and the journey to their home is longer by virtue of the fact that they can't go through the streets, not covered in the blood the way she is. When they finally arrive, there's a candle burning in the window, and the door swings open before they get to it. Father's standing in the doorway. His face as stern as ever, but there's a split-second where she can see his eyes widen. “Evie,” he says.

“I'm fine,” she says, and that phrase really is getting old. “It's that of—that of the man I killed.”

“You killed today?”

She nods. His hand tightens on the doorknob for a moment, enough that she can see his knuckles go white. Father looks at Jacob. “And you?”

“A kill as well,” Jacob says, and he sounds quite solemn for once. She turns her head to look at him, grimacing as dried blood flakes off the side of her neck. Jacob's expression is unusually grave as he holds out the handkerchief to their father, the white cloth turned a dark brown. “Here.”

She pulls out her own handkerchief and hands it to Father, who studies them for a moment. “You've both tasted blood today, then,” he says quietly. “You've fought for our cause, and you've killed for it. The title of Assassin is yours now, both of you.”

She nods, wordless. Father puts the handkerchiefs into his pocket and steps forward, pulling them both into a half-hug. She probably smells foul, but Father doesn't seem to care as he holds them close. “I'm very proud of you two,” he says, low and fierce, and she closes her eyes at the words.

All too soon, Father pulls away. His back is straight and head held high, and he's once again Ethan Frye, mentor and Assassin. Father gives George a nod, who's been standing silently behind them. “Well done.” He looks back at them. “We can discuss the mission later. For now, go get cleaned up. We'll debrief in the evening.”

“Yes, Father,” Jacob murmurs, and she echoes him.

Jacob's quiet next to her as they ascend the stairs, and she wonders what he's thinking. She touches his arm lightly, and he turns to her with a quizzical look. “Jacob,” she begins, and then stops. The adrenaline's worn off, the excitement gone, and she's not quite sure what's left. “We did well.”

His answering smile is brief, but it's a smile nonetheless. “We did,” he agrees. He raises his hand in a mock toast. “To many more.”

It doesn't quite sound like a question, but there's one lurking in it nonetheless. She nods in response, and he bumps their hands together lightly. “Go take a bath,” he tells her, and she nods again. “After the meeting, we can talk. If you want.”

“Of course,” she murmurs. He pats her on the shoulder and then pushes past her, heading towards his room. She stands for a moment, staring at nothing in particular. Right, she thinks. Later.

She shakes herself and lets loose a sigh, heading for the bathroom. Indoor plumbing. It's a beautiful thing, she thinks as she draws a bath. Unbraiding her hair, she watches as flakes of blood fall to the floor like some kind of macabre snow. She'll have to clean that up later, but for now—for now, she sinks into the water, submerging herself under the surface. It's warm down here, the sounds of the world faded away. It's all too soon before she's forced to come up for air.

Opening her eyes, she finds that the water's been stained rust red. She runs a hand through it, watching as small red wisps of color spiral out from her fingers. The mark of her first kill, and the last remnants of the man draining away like a forgotten memory. He was a Templar agent, or at least he was working closely with one. _She_ killed him, and she'll kill many more in her life. The Council had deemed the mission necessary, and she had done what was right. This fact is clear.

She leans back against the edge of the tub, letting the weight of her hair float loose. She's an Assassin now, with all that the title entails. And if she closes her eyes, she can pretend it's just water that surrounds her, not blood. 


	4. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to insert a "Courtship" chapter featuring Henry and Evie before this one, but that story was proving to be a massive bugbear to write. So instead, I may skip the entirety of AC:S, since there was a whole game describing those events already. Have a TIME JUMP! This takes place after the defeat of Crawford Starrick on the train that night. It's 4.7k words of Jacob and Evie Talking About Life, because feeeeeelings > plot and everybody knows it.
> 
> This chapter exists due to [this image](http://pinkpinkboota.tumblr.com/post/133056671675/%EC%A0%9C%EC%9D%B4%EC%BD%A5-%EC%A2%80-%EC%8A%A4%EB%AC%B4%EC%82%B4-%EB%A8%B9%EC%97%88%EC%9C%BC%EB%A9%B4-%EC%9D%B4%EC%A0%9C-%EB%88%84%EB%82%98%EA%B8%B0-%ED%98%BC%EC%9E%90-%EB%AC%B6%EC%9C%BC%EB%A9%B4-%EC%95%88%EB%8F%BC-%EC%9D%B4%EB%B9%84-%EC%8B%9C%EB%81%84%EB%9F%AC%EC%9B%8C-%EC%9D%B4-%EB%A8%B8%EB%A6%AC) from Tumblr.

“You know,” Jacob says, “there's still one thing we have to straighten out.”

Evie turns her head. Much like a cat, Jacob's sprawled in the sofa across from her, his feet propped on the armrest and head falling slightly off the side. He's shirtless, but bandages wrapped tight around his torso hide most of his chest from view. A healthy bruise is developing on his face, but he still manages to give her a lopsided, slightly upside-down grin.

“All right,” she says cautiously, and she shifts in her chair, trying to ease the aching of her own bruises. Starrick may have had the Shroud to ward off any damage up until the final kill, but they decidedly did not. “Let's hear it.”

“Where,” he says, and he draws out the word, rolling it in his mouth. She folds her hands around her cup of tea, inhaling the warm aroma and silently thanking Henry as she waits. Tea after a climactic fight to the death; he understands her so very well. Jacob's eyes flicker to the cup instead of finishing his sentence, and she raises an eyebrow in response.

“Where what?” she prompts.

“Tea,” he grunts, and in a single movement, manages to get himself upright. She knows perfectly well that he's cracked a rib and there's a massively ugly bruise close to his heart, but he doesn't seem to notice. “Give me.”

“I know for a fact that you were taught manners, Jacob Frye,” she says archly. “ _And_ you know how to use full sentences.”

He makes a sound of disgust. “Ugh. Fine. Please, Dame Evie Frye, wouldst thou bestow tea unto me,” he says, enunciating each word with exaggerated care. “I would consider it the greatest of kindnesses if you would, fair lady.”

“With a silver tongue like that, I'm surprised you haven't charmed your way into the skirts of half of London already,” she says dryly, but she does reach over to the teapot on the table. She's aware that he's watching her keenly, and she keeps the wince off her face even as her body complains, pouring a cup and adding milk just the way he likes it.

She hands it to him. He doesn't drink it, not immediately. Much like her, he holds it in his hands for a moment, his eyes closing as he breathes in. She settles back into her chair with her own cup, sipping from it carefully. Black tea with just a dab of milk. Perfect.

“Where what?” she repeats when his eyes open. “I'm hanging in suspense.”

“Oh? Oh,” he says. “Right. Where on earth did you find your dress for the ball? I wasn't aware that you had such an eye for fashion.”

It's enough of a non-sequitur that she stares at him for a moment. Of all the things he wants to ask her, it's about the dress? “I borrowed it from Mrs. Disraeli, if you must know,” she says when her thoughts have gathered into something resembling order.

“Mm, no, you didn't. Not unless Mrs. Disraeli is secretly a lot thinner and taller than she seems,” he says lazily.

“Since when did you have such an eye for women's measurements?” she asks, amused. “Or such an interest for that matter.”

“I don't,” he drawls. “But I do have an eye on you, distracted as you may think I am.”

“I'm not sure if I should be flattered or perturbed by that,” she retorts. In a supremely mature response, he sticks his tongue at her, and she rolls her eyes. “And much as it may bother you, I did in fact borrow it from Mrs. Disraeli. It may have been one of her friend's dresses for all I know, but it fit and that's all that matters.”

“And where is the dearly departed dress now?” he says, quirking an eyebrow at her.

...dumped behind a bush in Buckingham Palace, not that he needs to know. She purses her lips and doesn't answer, electing to sip from her cup instead. Jacob snickers, and she reminds herself that wanting to throttle her twin is in fact, a good thing. She'd hated him earlier in the day, a culmination of far too many months of frustration and not enough answers. Now she only wants to kill him a _little_ , which is definitely an improvement.

His laugh tapers off, but there's still a broad grin on his face. He sets his cup aside and stretches back into the couch, limbs sprawling every which way across the furniture. His hand taps loosely on the side of the couch, some indolent staccato to a song she doesn't recognize.

He twists his head to look at her, and she winces on his behalf as she gets a good look at his bruise head-on. They've salved it so there's nothing to do but wait now, but it's developing into a mottled purple color that looks rather hideous. No doubt she's starting to look equally colorful. “So,” she says.

“So,” he echoes. “So, so, so. Have you been good this year, Miss Evie? I hear you've been up to all sorts of adventures. What will Saint Nicholas bring you this year?”

“Well, I did overthrow a tyrant,” she says. “And I recovered an ancient artifact from the hands of Templars, killing several along the way. I think that merits an orange or two at Christmas.”

“Very meritorious,” he says with a nod. “And?”

It's an invitation, of sorts, and Jacob's watching her with a wry, almost rueful look in his eyes. She could say much more, she knows. She could talk about what she's done to clean up his mess. She could lecture him about the Bank of England, about Lambeth, about Pearl Attaway. About Roth. (Oh, yes. She could say very much about Maxwell Roth and the burning of the Alhambra.) And he would accept it, she thinks, with only a facade of sarcasm in return.

She offers him a smile. “And I endured a dance with a man with the most reprehensible taste in facial hair,” she says. “He is the most graceful of dancers, but rather crude in dialogue. I'm crushed, really. I may never be the same.”

That startles a laugh out of him, and it's contagious enough that she grins at him in response. It fades, though, as he clutches a hand to his ribs, bracing himself. Concern quickly replaces amusement. “Jacob?”

“I'm fine,” he says. He draws a deep breath and exhales with exaggerated care. “See? Just a twinge, that's all. Miss Nightingale is quite capable. It'll take more than that to ruin my day.”

“We are a hardy bunch, aren't we,” she agrees wryly.

“Indeed. Not even a piece of foul ancient magic can take us down,” he says. With a yawn, he slumps back into the couch. “And now that the battle is won, I shall roll around in the spoils of victory. Do you know, we're proper gentry now! Or we have the titles, at least. Does that mean that I have to retire to an estate in the country? Get a maid or five. Or a butler. I've never had a butler. Could be interesting, being buttled around. Is that a word?”

“Almost definitely not. And clearly fame and fortune have gone to your head,” she tells him, and he grins, unabashed. “Well, you can do that if you'd rather, but there's a lot you'd have to give up in return. Last I heard, gentlemen don't get into bar fights. Or gang fights. Or any fights, really, except perhaps duels.”

“Oh. Those are boring.”

“How many duels have you been in, exactly? None, I should hope,” she says. “You do know they're illegal.”

He gives her a wide-eyed, incredulous look. “Dearest sister mine,” he begins.

She groans as the idiocy of her words dawns on her before he says anything else. “Right, I know,” she starts, but he interrupts her.

“If you were worrying about the legality of things, have I got _news_ for you,” he says. “We have broken so many laws. So, so many. Poor Frederick has had and will have many a conniption. We are criminals forever, indelibly so. It'll be written on our tombstones at this rate. We will be—”

“I _know,”_ she says, exasperated. “Thank you for the extensive explanation.”

“I'm just trying to be helpful,” he says. His face is perfectly innocent, the angelic sort that charmed many a shopkeeper when they were younger. (“What a darling boy! Have a sweetie, love.” _If only they knew._ ) His expression changes in the next moment, though, turning into one of mock horror. “Oh. No. Don't tell me you're about to become a law-abiding Dame of the Crown, Evie. Anything but that.”

“I will be,” she says, picking out each word precisely, “exactly as law-abiding as required. And you should be too, if you know what's good for you. Starrick might be dead, but there's still much to do in London. There's still a vast social divide between the under and upper classes, with vast swathes of London still living in abject poverty. Meanwhile, Britain still sinks her claws into colonies around the world, and the Maharaja is trapped in exile. Women still denied property and education, rights that should be essential to all people regardless of gender or origin.” She points a finger at him. “I'll have you know that these are all issues that must be tackled if London is to be truly free.”

He's watching her as her tirade winds to an end. He's propped his chin on one hand, and there's a small, fond smile on his face. She matches his gaze evenly. It doesn't feel like a battle of wills, really, not like their confrontation just earlier this day. She doesn't have the hatred for that, and neither, she suspects, does he. Not anymore.

“All right,” he says at length, his voice mild and agreeable. “We'll go save the world, then, like we always do.”

Actually, they've only saved London, and even then the definition of “saved” must be rather generous for that to be true. But London is the center of the world, she thinks, and it seems petty to lodge a complaint over such a technicality. Especially with that softness in Jacob's tone, something that she hasn't heard in a very long time.

She looks down at the teacup still cradled in her palms. It's more lukewarm than properly hot, now, and she raises it to her lips, draining it dry. Carefully, she sets it aside and leans back into her chair, closing her eyes. The train rattles along around them in a never-ending journey through London, the soothing background to what is otherwise silence.

It's been ages since they've sat together like this, she realizes. They elected to stay in separate compartments at the very beginning, and since then they've always been so busy, never on the train at the same time. Like ships passing in the night, they've been missing each other in every which way. Never together, always apart.

God, she's missed this.

“Tired?” Jacob says, interrupting her thoughts.

She opens her eyes and looks at him. “Yes,” she says. And there's no shame in it, because it has been a very long day, what with averting the massacre of the half of the English aristocracy and all. “Getting ready for bed seems more exhausting than it's worth,” she says contemplatively. “Perhaps I'll just sleep here.”

“In a chair? Your back will regret it,” he says. “Old woman as you are.”

“And yet I don't notice you offering up the sofa in an act of gentlemanly chivalry,” she says dryly. “Being knighted has done nothing to improve you, I see.”

“Complain, complain, complain,” he says, waving a hand. Despite the words, though, he does shift to make room for her. He's still taking up more than half the couch, but there's an acceptably large seat on the cushions available now. She gets up carefully, biting back a groan as every part of her body seems to protest at the movement. Starrick did no lasting damage, but it's more than enough that she's going to be sore for days.

She sits down onto the couch with less grace than planned, landing heavily in the cushions. Jacob taps her on the shoulder, and she gives him an inquiring glance. “Turn around,” he says.

“What for?”

“I'll undo your hair for you,” he says. “You did want to get ready for bed, didn't you?”

It's a startling offer. She does like to sleep with her hair loose, that's true. They're both well aware of that fact. But he hasn't done something like this in a very long time, not since they were young, brash and brave and with nothing to fear from the world. Certainly, this is the first time since they've set foot into London, almost a year now to the day.

She turns. There's a grunt behind her as Jacob sits up, and then his fingers are moving through her hair, undoing her braid and brushing the nape of her neck. His hands are calloused and rough, but they're also very gentle as he unravels the woven strands and lays them straight. She sighs, relaxing under his ministrations.

He sniffs. She turns her head to see him giving her a confused look. “What's wrong?” she asks.

“Did you put perfume on?”

“Yes?” she says, puzzled at the question. “I went to a ball today at Buckingham Palace. Usually people like to smell nice for that sort of affair.”

“It's bloody strange,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “I didn't even know you owned perfume. Another one of Mrs. Disraeli's gifts?”

“I own perfume,” she says, and she's not entirely sure if she should be amused or affronted. “I don't wear it very often, admittedly, but it never hurts to be prepared.”

Jacob mumbles something under his breath that she can't quite make out. “Excuse me?” she says.

He waggles his eyebrows at her. “For nightly walks with Greenie?” he says again, louder this time. “Not that he doesn't love your natural musk, I'm sure.”

“Jacob!” she says, somewhat scandalized. She straightens and punches him on the shoulder, and he falls back with a yelp. “Really?”

“Oh, clearly courtship hasn't doused your fire,” he wheezes out between laughs. “Should I be expecting a happy announcement any day now?”

Is he referring to marriage or pregnancy? The thought is like a bucket of water to the face. She's only just begun to reconcile Father's admonishment with the reality of love, and she's not entirely sure if she's ready for either. Pregnancy is unimaginable at this stage. Marriage—

“I don't know,” she says, suddenly cold. Henry is lovely company. He's unusually sensitive and sweet, which in her experience are rare traits to find in men, much less an Assassin. She enjoys being around him; she admires his taste for scholarship. But does that mean marriage? It's a very big step.

Something on her face must give away her turmoil, and he shakes his head. “Don't panic,” he says.

“I'm not going to panic,” she says. She's trying for curt, but she knows that he understands her too well to be fooled for long. “It's a big question. That's all.”

“Then we can put it off for tomorrow, or some other time when neither of us are sore to the bone,” he says, his voice surprisingly gentle. “Turn back around.”

Still numb, she obeys. Her hair slips off her shoulder, an interwoven mess tumbling down her back. Neither braid nor loose, not one thing nor the other. And isn't that a perfect metaphor for her feelings for Henry, she thinks with just a hint of testiness. Trust Jacob to unwrap such a conundrum at now of all times.

“Shilling for your thoughts,” the target of her ire says.

She works through several responses in her mind, considering her irritation from every angle. She's not really angry at Jacob, she realizes. For one, she doesn't have the energy to be angry right now, nor to start another blazing row with him. For another, it isn't his fault that she can't sort her own tangled emotions out. And for the third…

She shakes her head. His hands slack enough just in time that he doesn't pull on her scalp. “Oi,” he says. “Watch it.”

“Sorry,” she says.

“No, you're not,” he says, but he sound amused. “Oh, well. It's your head, not mine. Where's your brush?”

It's on a table next to the sofa, conveniently close enough for Jacob to reach over and grab. The cushions move around her as he reaches for it. “Do you remember what Father said?” she asks as he settles back into place with a grunt.

“Probably not. Refresh my memory?” he says, sounding distracted. He moves the brush through her hair, carefully working through each tangled knot as he finds them. “The man said an awful lot of things.”

“You should. You threw it in my face a few months ago,” she says, but she's not really upset at the memory. “'Don't allow personal feelings to compromise the mission.'”

“Oh. That. Yes, and it's a load of tosh. I said it to rile you up. You really are too easy, you know.”

She breathes. Looks down at her hands, deceptively uncurled in her lap. “But if I did marry Henry—”

His hands pause. She waits with bated breath, and then his hand settles on her shoulder, solid and very warm. “Then you would be happy,” he says quietly. “Forget Father's moaning. He's dead, what does he know?”

A lot, actually. Quite a lot. Ethan Frye was a scholar beyond imagining, and she wonders suddenly if he would be proud of them and what they've done. London is theirs now, an Assassin city ready for a new generation. The two of them, Jacob and Evie Frye—they did this, and they've changed so much in the process. And that's good, isn't it? If they had followed rules forever, they wouldn't even be here. They'd be stuck in Crawley, assassinating pawns on the chessboard while the king grew ever richer in his stronghold.

“I suppose so,” she says somberly. “And you?”

His hand lifts from her shoulder, resuming its slow glide through her hair. “And me what?”

There are two questions that branch off from that sentence. The first: would _you_ be happy if I married Henry? It's almost an antiquated question. She's not a fainting damsel of old, and she hardly needs his permission to wed whom she wishes. But he's her brother, and he's the most important person in her life. Permission means nothing. His blessing, everything.

She twists just slightly to look at him. He looks back at her, gaze steady, hands steady. Her heart is steady, and she knows the answer. She smiles, and his eyes flicker downwards and back up in rueful acknowledgement.

So. All right, then.

The second question, easier and more playful in this time of rest. “Any flirtations that I should know about?” she says, turning back around. “I notice that Mrs. Disraeli was certainly making eyes on you. Need I be warned about Britain's next scandal?”

His laugh is light and easy. “Mrs. Disraeli doesn't get nearly enough excitement with her dear Benjamin in that case,” he says. “Also, she's old enough to be our mother. That's a little strange, even for me.”

“True. I didn't think that your tastes extended to that of May and December,” she says. “No one, then? You've certainly been busy. No fair lass has caught your eye?”

His hands pause. She doesn't need to look to know that he's grown very still behind her, his breathing settling into a regulated pattern. It's a pattern she knows well; the calm before the kill. “Jacob?” she says, concerned. She'd intended her question to be a segue into something light, not to draw forth this sort of reaction.

“Lucy Thorne,” he says after a moment of pause.

What?

She blinks, startled. “Lucy Thorne?” she says incredulously. “ _Really?_ Jacob, she was such a prig!”

She certainly wasn't intending to, but her words snap him out of whatever frozen state has possessed him. He buries his head against her shoulder, shaking with laughter. She reaches back and pats him on the head, pleased but somewhat confused as he works through the fit. But really— _Thorne_? Also, other than that one time where they were shot at by her henchmen, when have she and Jacob ever met?

“Oh, God,” he says, coming up for air. There's still a breathless note of hilarity in his voice. “No! Oh, no. Not her. No. I've never. What? No. Ha!”

Oh! Okay. “Well, good,” she says, relieved but also mostly bemused. “At any rate, I killed her a while ago, so it would be rather awkward if she was your long-lost love. Why bring her up, though?”

And just like that, the laughter cuts off as if slashed by a knife. The question seems to sober him up instantly, the stiffness returning. He's still leaning against her, though, and she can feel the heavy weight of his breath against her neck. There's something he doesn't quite want to say, she knows. She waits patiently, letting the silence be its own lure. He'll tell her, given enough time. They've been each other secret-keepers for long enough, even with this past year between them.

When he does speak again, his voice is very quiet. “You fought her,” he says. “You sparred with her, more than once, verbally and physically. Did she—” He raises his head, wets his lips.

“Did she what?” she prompts gently as he hesitates, seemingly at a loss for words. She watches him intently, but he doesn't meet her gaze. What is he trying to say? “Jacob. Did she what?”

“Excite you,” he says, and his voice is a bare whisper. “In a way that you didn't think was right.”

His eyes flicker up to meet hers. She keeps her expression calm even as the thoughts work through her head, the pieces faling into place one at a time. Excitement. Lucy Thorne, significant in the analogy. Is he speaking of her as a rival of power? No, that would be positively thrilling as both tale and conquest. As a Templar, perhaps? That would be more forbidden in their world, but not nearly enough to elicit this half-shame, half-fear. So what else? Maybe as a woman _—_?

Oh.

She can make her own conjectures, following the line of thought to its inevitable conclusion. As Lucy might have been to her, so someone was to Jacob. She doesn't know quite who he might be referring to, but she can certainly suspect. At any rate, the exact identity doesn't matter right now. His confession, whispered here in the privacy of the train, is enough.

Jacob's still resting against her, but his eyes are downcast now. She shifts, gently reaching up to cradle his head. “Not for Miss Thorne, no,” she says. “But I would not have been taken askance had that happened.”

“I was,” he mumbles.

“Love is love,” she says gently.

He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Well. I don't know if I'd go so far as to call it that. Nothing happened to be ashamed of,” he says, but there _is_ shame in his voice, so he must be lying in one way or another. “It—nothing happened. Well, lots of things happened, but nothing like—that. Just thoughts.”

“Thoughts will do as they may. Actions matter more,” she says. “You don't need to hide from me, Jacob. I'm not here to judge.” She pauses, then adds lightly, “Well, not _that_ aspect, at least. About various other shenanigans, we might have to have a Talk.” She punctuates the last word carefully, making sure there's a capital letter clearly at the beginning of the word.

It's an opening she offers, a safe choice for him should he need it. There's a crooked smile on his face as he follows the change of subject. “Not the Talk,” he says, and she knows that he's not ready to speak of it yet, and that's all right. Maybe one day he will, and she'll be there when he's ready. It's enough to get a small laugh out of him, at least, and he leans back a little to look her in the eye. “Did anyone ever tell you that you'd be an excellent schoolteacher? I can see you now with the ruler ready in your hand. No, not a ruler, that's too tame. A horsewhip?”

“For you, you scoundrel, a cat o' nine tails may be more appropriate,” she teases, following his direction.

He makes a face at her, and with that, the moment of heavy solemnity is past. “How very rude,” he says with an exaggerated sniff. “Do you kiss Henry with that mouth?”

“Yes,” she says. Leaning forward, she adds quietly, “And I'll kiss you, too. Just you wait.”

“Oh, no. I can see the scandalous headlines now. You do know I'm not _that_ much of an attention hound, right?” he says dryly.

She leans forward. Despite the joking words, his eyes close slowly as she brushes a chaste, gentle kiss on his forehead. Lifting a hand, she runs a thumb along his temple, willing the lines to smooth away.

He sighs. “I feel I should lodge a token protest to say I'm not actually five,” he says after a moment. “In case the journalists want a statement of record.”

“Duly noted,” she says gravely. “I'll make sure that the words are immortalized when I publish my memoirs.”

“Good,” he says. “So long as that's cleared up.”

They sit for a moment like that, held in a loose embrace. The train rattles around them, and the whistle blasts through the night air. At the sound, Jacob moves, shifting slightly away from her and settling back into the cushions. She watches as his eyes rove over her, studying her just as carefully as she is him.

“Your hair is a bloody mess,” he says finally.

“Hmm. And whose fault is that?” she retorts.

“Fair point,” he says. The brush is lying next to him, wedged into the side of the cushions. He picks it up, his fingers wrapping around the wooden handle. “Come on, then.”

It's really not as bad as he claims, but she turns nonetheless. Her braid is undone, and he's worked out most of the knots already. So really, there's just the straightening left as her hair retains some curl from the braid, falling in a loose waterfall down to the small of her back. Jacob's strokes with the brush are long and slow, almost meditative in nature. The lethargy of the evening is taking hold, she knows. It's affecting her too, the warm solitude of the train sweeping over them both.

He sets the brush aside. Reaching around her shoulders, he gathers her hair together and sweeps it all behind her back. His fingers part through her hair in one last stroke, checking for any last-minute knots. There are none. “There,” he says softly, his hands lifting away. “Done.”

She looks up. Out the window, where London awaits, the world at their fingertips. And then here, back to Jacob in the train, seated next to her. His eyes are half-lidded in the lamplight, and he looks as drowsy as she feels.

“You can stay in my compartment tonight if you want,” she offers. “I'll even let you have the bed.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “And force my lady sister to take the sofa? I've been told I should be more chivalric. Consider this my grand gesture.”

She huffs with laughter, and his lips curve in a sleepy smile. “Very noble indeed, Sir Jacob,” she says, and he raises a hand to his head to doff an imaginary hat.

Well. She can't put it off forever. With a groan, she stands, staggering a little once she's fully upright. Jacob stretches out to take over the couch that she left, and she makes her way over to her bed. Thankfully, it's not far, by the very virtue of it being a train compartment. Sometimes it's a little claustrophobic, but other times—like now—it's perfect.

She tosses a blanket to him, which he catches deftly with one hand. Reaching over, she douses the lamp and settles back onto the bed. She pulls her pillow up under her head and wraps herself snug in her remaining blanket. Her hair pools around her, free and unbound.

“Good night, Jacob,” she says softly into the dark.

“Good night, Evie,” he replies.


End file.
